Deadpool: Generation Dead
by TheWolfofthePalatine
Summary: A down-on-his-luck and depressed freelance journalist sets off to track down and write a book about the Merc with a Mouth, Wade WIlson, and bites off far more than he can chew in the process.
1. Chapter 1

**A FOREWORD BY THE WRITER**

_My name is Jason Knight. I'm a journalist. Oxford-educated, in case you were wondering. I've spent much of my life as a war correspondent. Falklands, Northern Ireland, Afghanistan, Iraq, twice, Palestine...I've seen a lot of things, been a lot of places, met a lot of people. In the late 2000s I took a job with the London-based international business newspaper The Commercialist, and spent a few months in the jungles of sub-Saharan Africa, tracking a genocidal warlord and his army of child-soldiers. I got back to London with entire legal pads full of notes, with the mind to writing a book on my experience. By the time I got home, however, no-one gave a crap about some African warlord whose name nobody could pronounce. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, there was bigger news on TV._

This was around the time, some of you may recall, of the Superhuman Registration Act, the fallout from which was...well. Everyone remembers it for themselves. It was bad. Having had my plans for a book scrapped by my editor's total disinterest, I instead petitioned to fly to New York and cover the split in the S.H.I.E.L.D. Avengers Initiative that, at that time, looked like it was going to lead to a few hot-headed but highly intriguing debates on the floor of the New York courts. Oh, how naive and innocent we all were back then. Amidst a pool of about a dozen writers, I was chosen to fly to New York along with a photographer by the name of Andrea McMahon, an LSE graduate in International Relations who was as stunningly beautiful as she was fiercely intelligent. We hit it off as a team instantly, managing against all odds to nab an interview with Peter Parker following the media rush that surrounded his revealing himself to be Spiderman. She even got a signed photo with him to send back to her boyfriend in Dublin. I remember that night taking her out for drinks, clinking champagne glasses together and saying that this, right here, was the life. A once-in-a-lifetime assignment.

_ Turns out that wasn't far from the truth._

_ Geffen-Meyer Chemicals changed everything. Andrea and myself were not on hand for the first skirmish between the Avengers and the Secret Avengers, but we certainly felt the fallout. Riots erupted all over the mainland United States, protest marches either in favour or against registration. Half the people blamed Tony Stark for the outbreak of open hostilities, the other half blamed Captain America. With the Secret Avengers gone to ground following their defeat at the Battle of Geffen-Meyer, I had no chance to interview Captain America and get his stance on the dark turn developments had taken. Tony Stark, likewise, was unavailable for comment. I had struck up an interview with William Kaplan – aka Wiccan – prior to the battle, and, while I initially hadn't been too pushed for it, I found it far more engaging and enjoyable than I'd expected. We discussed the reasons for the split with the Avengers the formation of the Secret Avengers; he explained to me his reasons for opposing the SRA and I even managed to ask a few questions about his struggles to be accepted as an openly-homosexual superhuman. I had thought we had struck up quite a friendship from the initial interview, and afterwards, when I learnt of his death, I was stricken with grief. Around this time, things started getting ugly in the Civil War and, as a result, Andrea and I found ourselves with more and more time on our hands and less and less in the way of actual investigative journalism to do. The war was being waged largely in secret, with the media focusing instead on the political ramifications of the Superhero Registration Act._

_ Shortly before the Battle of Rikers' Island, Andrea McMahon was killed by Venom, a member of the pro-registration Thunderbolts. She went out of the hotel room we'd been staying in one day to get a New York-style cheesecake and never returned. I only found out about her fate after the fact. After Captain America's Earth-shaking surrender, I left for London, not even seeking an interview with newly-minted S.H.I.E.L.D. Director Tony Stark. My heart just wasn't in it. The pro-registration forces had used convicted felons, murderers and terrorists to achieve their ends, and it cost my partner her life. For that I have never forgiven S.H.I.E.L.D. or the policy-makers who voted in favour of passing the SRA._

_ I resigned my position in The Commercialist about a month later, and went freelance. I returned to Northern Ireland to write a piece about the ongoing Peace Process there but my heart was not in it. I visited Utopia to interview Scott Summers about the work he was doing there with mutant children, but, again, I bailed before I had even finished my piece._

_ I wandered from quite some time, doing odd-jobs here and there, completely neglecting my writing, until, just under a month ago, I was contacted by an old friend in Manchester. As part of the WikiLeaks explosion he had stumbled across a few top-secret United States Military documents that he thought I might be interested in, given my affinity for superhumans. It spoke of details acquired over a period of several years about a mercenary the CIA had been keeping close tabs on, before at last confirming him dead by suicide in an abandoned warehouse somewhere near the Canadian border. Another document, unrelated to the first but dated some time after, clearly referenced a mercenary with the same skill set and uniform design as the tragic suicide victim the CIA had taken such an interest in. This second document referenced a third, dating back to before either of the first two, which contained a clear-cut image of a horribly disfigured man. His fact-file noted that he had been a cancer patient who had enrolled in a top-secret US Military project known only as "Weapon X." Though we searched through terabytes worth of data for it, we could find no further reference to the project. In any case, this third file indicated that the mercenary may have emerged from this project with the regenerative capabilities of X-Men member Wolverine, thus explaining how he could have potentially survived killing himself even after the CIA wrote him off as deceased._

_ Furthermore, the third file gave me a name to go off – Wade Wilson. I thanked my friend, and packed my notepads and pens. It was time, at last, to go back to work._

_ I have a habit, it would appear, for wandering into dreadful assignments._

_ (The following account is dedicated to the memory of Andrea McMahon)_


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER ONE**

Enter the Deadpool

I landed back in the United States at Newark Liberty International Airport, checking in to a nearby hotel – the Casa Blanca, of all names – to plan my next move. It was what you would expect; a three star modern concrete block frequented by air crews, passengers on layover and prostitutes. It boasted the questionable amenities of both a Bible, if requested at reception, and Pay Per View porn on demand. It was late by the time I arrived, and the jet lag was slaughtering me, so I made my way up to my room and browsed the adult channels until realising I was in no mood to lie in bed watching some young German girl meet her maker in the form of two large African-American gentlemen.  
Instead, I opted to go down to the bar. I'd been drinking a lot since New York – a little more now since I'd been out of work – and I hadn't yet decided whether it helped or not. It was easier to forget. On the tiny little square television above the bar, a live news broadcast patiently awaited Director Stark's announcement on the latest initiative by S.H.I.E.L.D. in integrating the superhuman population with the public. I asked the barman to change it over to sports, and he agreed without too much fuss. American sports never really did it for me – too much stopping and starting, stopping and starting – but at least I wouldn't have to see that man's face any time soon.

It was a quiet evening, the only other customers besides myself being an Asian couple sitting alone in one corner, talking in hushed voices. I had just downed my fifth whiskey when a tall blonde stewardess, dressed the part with a roll-on suitcase to match, strode in confidently, placing one ridiculously long leg in front of the other as she came to the bar and took her seat. 'Martini, please,' she said in an East London accent. I saw my chance and took it.

'Fancy meeting someone from the old fishing village here, then,' I shot her a wink and a sly smile.

'Excuse me?'

'Eastend, right? I'm from around Soho myself.'

She smiled faintly as the barman handed her her drink, and sipped at it noncommittally. Not one to give up, I slid across to the stool next to her.

'Jason Knight, freelance journalist,' I introduced myself coolly.

'Jason Knight?' she repeated, 'that sounds like some kind of spy name. What are you reporting on?'

I smiled broadly, not believing how easily that had fallen into my lap. 'Well...' I scratched the stubble on my chin, '...if I told you I'd probably have to kill you,' I grinned. She laughed. We finished the conversation in my room.

I was up at the break of dawn the next morning. I turned around to find the stewardess sprawled out on her stomach next to me, naked save for her blue hat. I slid out of bed silently and got dressed, creeping out the door with my shoes in one hand and my bag in the other. I was checked out and in a cab heading for the city inside of three minutes.

The plan from here was, admittedly, risky. Back in that Manchester apartment when putting together the fact file on Mr. Wilson we had discovered but a single link – a known associate of his and former member of HYDRA known only as "Bob". There was evidence to suggest that Bob was in New Jersey on some assignment from Wilson himself, and that if I was to get to the mercenary I would be in the best position to do that by going through him.

Luckily, I had an idea on where to find him. We had pulled HYDRA's own records from WikiLeaks and managed to determine that Bob, in fact, had a contact in Newark who owned a seedy little joint called the Pink Flamingo. That was my destination, and my plan, while not very exciting, was to frequent the joint and drink as a regular there until this Agent Bob revealed himself.

Three weeks later, I had burned through most of my funds and had been involved in at least four bar fights and one case of drunken misconduct. I was stood outside the Flamingo huddled into a phone booth, flicking through my notebook for the right number. It had rained all day and only tapered off in the last hour or so, so as cars skidded past they threw up huge waves of muddy water onto the pavement.

Eventually I found the page I was looking for, and dialled in the code for collect calls before keying in the number. The phone rang twice.

'Hello?'

'Hello, Mickey?'

'Yeah, Jason, that you? Jesus, what time is it over there?'

'Never mind that. Listen to me, I've blown through all my cash, and all the reserve cash too. I need you to wire transfer me something to hold me down out here.'

'Mother of God, Jace, what's going on over there, have you spoken to Agent Bob yet?'

'No, not yet,' I cursed under my breath, the receiver throwing back static at my ear, 'I just need another stake out here, it won't be long now, I know it...'

'Listen, Jason, no can do, man, okay? You're already into me for like seven large already. I'm sorry, mate, I really am, but I...'

I was no longer listening. My attention had wandered back out of the booth and towards the door of the Pink Flamingo, where a small crowd had gathered to watch as a fight spilled out onto the street. From this vantage I could tell that it was a fairly one-sided scrap; one poor guy was getting the Hell beaten out of him by some well-dressed wiseguy looking type. The other – the man being pounded on – looked like...

'Mickey. MICKEY. I have to go. Call you back.' I slammed the phone back onto the hook and pressed out of the booth, crossing the street back over to where the fight was.

There was no doubting who the sandy-haired victim was. I walked determinedly over to where he had been laid out on top of the gutter so that his assailant could rain blows down on him, and stepped over him, shoving the wiseguy off.

'Easy, easy!' I shouted to be heard over the yelling crowd that had gathered around, 'leave it out, yeah?' I offered a hand down to the bloody and bruised man in the street. 'You're Bob, innit?' I asked him as he stood up to regard me with his two black eyes.

The battered and bruised gentleman who looked up hopelessly at me nodded his head once before passing out unconscious into the rain-drenched gutter. I thanked my lucky stars. No, this situation was not convenient but at least I was a step closer to getting my story.

Before I could try to help Bob back up, however, the wiseguy was shoving me and glowering at me.

'Lookie here, boys,' he drawled in an Italian-American twang, and it was only then I noticed he was not, in fact, alone; there were three more slickly-dressed men crowding me now, 'we got us a limey don't know what's good for him,' there was a chorus of menacing sniggers, and I backed off a few paces.

'Easy on now lads,' I replied, my voice a lot more confident than I was feeling, 'I know this guy, yeah? I'm a journalist, I'm doing a story on a friend of his, I don't want any trouble...'

'Yeah, well, better look next time, mister journalist writer, 'cos you've just found trouble,' the head honcho skipped over Bob's body lying in the gutter and threw a fist at me. 'You God damn jamook!'

I've been in enough warzones to know what a gunshot sounds like. So when the ear-splitting crack resounded out from somewhere behind me, I knew to duck down immediately, while the crowd simply panicked and dispersed like a flock of pigeons when a child runs through them. The three wiseguys who had materialised from out of the crowd scarpered too; everyone scarpered, barring myself, poor Bob, and the Italian who had thrown himself at me. When I opened my eyes again, excess adrenaline flooding my veins, I saw why.

A sniper's bullet had spread his brains all over the pavement like low-fat butter. I swallowed hard, and spun around to meet the shooter's trajectory.

There was no mistaking the man in the red-and-black get-up standing across the street, aiming a 50. calibre sniper rifle at the spot the wiseguy's head had been only moments before as if it were a supersoaker. I swallowed hard and stepped forwards, extending a hand.

'Wade Wilson, I presume,' I breathed in relief, 'I owe you a debt of gratitude, you saved me a beating. I'm...'

'I know who you are.' I was thrown by Wilson's voice. It was horrendous. Like somebody gargling with broken glass. He shoved past me, depositing the rifle on the ground and helped Bob to his feet. 'Don't mind my trusty sidekick,' Wilson said, helping Bob into a sitting position. 'He was once a dastardly agent of evil, but he has since seen the error of his ways,' he gave Bob a congratulatory slap on the chest, causing Bob to fall back over and crack his head against the curb. 'HYDRA Bob, shape up,' he said in a tone of exasperation, 'we've a long way to go yet!'

Wilson stood back up and shouldered his rifle, giving Bob a hard kick to the ribs to stir him into action. Before either of them could start to walk away, I cleared my throat noisily. 'Mr. Wilson, I'm a journalist, and I was...'

'I know,' Wilson affixed a look on me that left me strangely confused. For a man in a mask he was capable of very intricate expressions. 'It says who you are up there in the description,' Wilson pointed to the top of the page, 'and, yes, you have my express permission to write a book about my with all copyright materials blah blah blah blah...'

I stared dumbly at him. 'What are you talking about?' rejecting the rest of the nonsense (I was starting to wonder if Wade Wilson wasn't certifiably insane), I focused on the last bit. 'I'm only here to write an article, I've no intention of...'

'Jason!' Wilson spun around to look at me with those weird white patches on his mask. 'How many times do I have to tell you? Just look! "A down-on-his-luck and depressed freelance journalist sets off to track down and write a book about the Merc with a Mouth,"' he intoned in a way that sounded as if he was reading off of something. 'That's YOU, the depressed freelance journalist, and I'M the Merc with a Mouth, so, hop to! Get writing!'

I had been talking with Wade Wilson for just a minute and already I was deflated again. Nothing in the Weapon X file mentioned anything about him being insane. Was this the sort of nonsense he uttered all the time? If so, was there even a story here?

As police sirens filled the air, Wilson tugged on Bob's sleeve to hurry him along. 'Come on, Jason!' he called back to me, 'HYDRA Bob and I have a super secret important mission here in New Jersey! The perfect thing for you to tag along and write about!' With no other alternative at this time, outside a New Jersey nightclub next to a slain mobster, I began to follow the two misfits – HYDRA Bob and Wade Wilson – mind racing, no idea what was going on around me. 'Honestly, Jason,' Wilson said as I caught up to them both, 'refer to me as Deadpool. Your readers already know that's my name, there's no need to give an elaborate scene to introduce it.'

'What on Earth are you talking about...?' I was starting to lose my patience with this Wade Wilson.

'_Deadpool_!'

'WHAT?'

'You can call me Deadpool!'

'ALRIGHT! Fine!' I was so confused I simply decided to agree with the man's insanity rather than argue the point further. Deadpool it was. 'I'm almost afraid to ask,' I said as we ducked into a side alley and away from prying eyes, 'but what is this super secret mission you're on?'

'Mr. Knight,' Deadpool said cheerfully, 'have you ever heard of a man named Frank Castle?'


End file.
